Hope for A Treasure
by Jasque
Summary: She's not coming back, so he tries to hold onto every minute memories of her.


_I borrowed repeatinglitanies prompt: Mr Gold teaches his maid Belle to read. When she starts to take a deeper interest in educating herself, Mr Gold begins to fear losing her. Because who in their right mind would want to remain by his side if it wasn't for necessity?_

A/N: I tweaked the prompt a bit. A big thank you to wanderlust-and-wallflowers for beta'ing.

* * *

_**"Where there is ruin, there is hope for a treasure" - Rumi**_

* * *

March 5, 2013 is a Tuesday and Mr. Gold pauses after writing down the date in his accounting book, letting the memories play out in his head. Three years ago on the same date, a haggard-looking woman entered his shop, a look of determination apparent on her pale face.

* * *

_Standing a few paces away from him, a woman in baggy jeans and chequered shirt stood rather stiffly. Her lips moved in their feeble attempt of forming a coherent sentence. His patience was dwindling with every fumbling attempts of a greeting and he was about to throw her out when she finally steeled her nerves and bluntly asked him for employment._

_Surprise was an apt word to describe his reaction to the woman's request. The last person who brought up the subject fled in tears, and no one dared to ask him since, not until now. It appeared she did not get the memo._

_A caustic remark easily fell from his lips, but it did not deter her. He could see the telltale sign of tears when her blue eyes became glassy, but she stood her ground and eloquently explained her reasoning. Before long, they found themselves exchanging barbs._

_Judging from the tears streaming down her cheeks and her slumped posture, he knew he had won. Belle French, that was the woman's name, gave a silent apology and quickly exited his shop looking worse than when she entered it._

_Myriad of emotions filled him, but contempt was the strongest of all. Hell would freeze over before he would even contemplate employing the suspicious Miss French. He had every right to be wary of her, especially since he was the one responsible for bringing her father to trial._

_Storybrooke was a small and secluded town, so any secrets do not remain hidden for long, and anything scandalous hardly happened. Thus, news spread like wildfire among the residents when they discovered the gentle florist, Maurice French, was a runaway criminal._

_The French's moved to the little town four years before Maurice's arrest, and in that time everyone saw only a doting father. Belle was always by his side, helping with the flower arrangements and greeting the customers with her smiles. After the arrest, Belle French soon found herself in the foster system and then out of Storybrooke while Maurice French fell sick and died six months into his sentence._

_With time, the residents of Storybrooke had forgotten all about the French family, but when a certain blue-eyed woman came to town, the whispers started. No one knew why the daughter of Maurice French came back, but the general consensus was revenge – and said daughter had just visited his shop seeking employment. Oh, he'd guard himself well._

_Thinking he had thoroughly shattered Miss French the day before, he expected her presence would never again grace his little world – how wrong was he. The thin woman walked into his shop and asked the same questions, to which he gave the same answers and the meeting once again ended with her departure._

_This pattern continued for another three days and he wondered why he had yet to call on the Sheriff; clearly this was harassment. Then again, it had been a long time since he had this much fun parrying with another human being. He had to admit it was interesting to see her grow more defiant with each meeting, the fire in her eyes making her look less like a living skeleton._

_On the sixth day, Miss French apparently let all sense of propriety fly out the window. She barged into his shop, the match of wits began, and somewhere along the line it became a shouting contest. What he did not anticipate was for the skinny woman to grab him by the collar and shout strings of curses at him, all the while shaking him._

_"Tell me the truth Miss French and I may actually hire you." This snapped her out of her sudden bout of temper and she released her death-grip on his collar. She stumbled a few steps back, nearly knocking over a table full of various delicate items._

_Her eyes were wide and brimming with tears. He remembered that look; it was the same look her 10-year-old self had had when she was led away from her father. She was still that little girl, trying desperately to understand why her world was crumbling around her._

_"No one wants to hire me! Those who did, eventually find themselves losing customers. You're the only one left."_

_"Why return to Storybroo–"_

_"I NEED CLOSURE! I CAN'T MOVE FORWARD IF I CAN'T LET HIM GO!" was her distressed response. The waif-life woman crumpled to the floor, sobbing uncontrollably. Hugging her knees she rocked herself to calm her shaking body and most probably her fragile mental state. He knew whom she was referring to, her father. In that moment he understood her more than he would have liked, having gone through similar upheaval himself._

_When the sobbing quietened into sniffles, he handed her his handkerchief. Owlish eyes looked up at him and then stared at the offering, looking like she expected it to bite her. A crease of the forehead and thinned lips were enough to make her accept his offer. Leaning heavily on his cane, he sighed, not anticipating what a life-altering decision it was when he uttered these words, "My house. Tomorrow. 8 a.m. I fire employees who can't keep track of time."_

_"Are … are you hiring me?"_

_"Has your intelligence dribbled out along with your snot, girl? Get up, and make sure to be on time."_

_He expected at most for her to spew various versions of 'thank you' and mumble incomprehensible words. What he least expected was a fierce hug. Her auburn hair assaulted his nose and for someone so sickly-looking, he did not expect her to smell so … soapy. His senses were full of her, but the most alarming of them was how bony she felt underneath her baggy clothes._

_Miss French disentangled herself from his person and was blushing furiously. She stuttered another 'thank you' and was gone in a flurry of auburn curls. He didn't understand at that time why he took note of such trivial things._

* * *

Slumping on the couch in the back room, holding his head in his hands Gold wondered for the umpteenth time how; why and when did he fall for her? It has been nine months and nineteen days since she left his employment to adventure in the great wide somewhere. He desperately wants her by his side forever, but what right does he have to ask that of her? She said she'll write, but, though he does not hold her to that promise, he finds himself checking his mailbox on a daily basis.

/*/*/*

She does indeed send him letters; detailing her travels, her planned novel, the people she meets and the jobs she has – all the while never failing to reassure him that she is happy and safe. He never writes back because she told him not to: I'll be constantly on the move, but I'll always know where to find you. But nothing lasts forever – like the many things in his life. Slowly, the intervals between each letter lengthened. The last time he received one from her was five months ago.  
/*/*/*

The letters are safely tucked away in his house, sitting silently in a locked wooden box. He has often found himself unlocking it these past five months. How pathetic it is for him to keep track of the days, to hold on to every minute detail of her? He barks out a broken laugh when he realises how far he has fallen.

She is happy wherever she is now – of that much he is certain. He has perused her letters one too many times to know that she is more than content with her life. A life that is glaringly far more appealing than being a permanent fixture in an incorrigible old man's life.

Despite the ache in his heart, a sense of pride blooms in his chest. Belle finally has a firm rein on her life. Slowly but surely, she'll achieve anything that she sets out to do. He wishes her nothing but happiness, and if the price is in forgetting him then he'll gladly pay it. No price is too great for her happiness.

* * *

The next three weeks pass in a numbing blur. He tries to distract himself by creating a new business plan, but all for naught. The numbers swim before his eyes and his mind keeps on wandering to her like it always does on rainy days like today.

The soft pattering of rain on the windows of his pawnshop serves as a reminder of her numerous failed attempts at forcing hot chocolate down his throat. He misses that part of her, the sheer determination on her face in achieving a goal. Oh, he sees it now; the lips set in a firm line, the knitted eyebrows and the pointed look are enough to make him submit to her coddling.

Of course he refused to drink it before showing her his distaste for it. He'd glare at the cup of hot chocolate as if it had done him some great wrong before proceeding to slowly sip the ridiculously sweet drink. As much as he disliked it, he'd never admit to himself, or her, how refreshed it makes him feel. Somehow he suspects she already knew because she'd give him her secret smile – a tiny tug on the left corner of her mouth, a crinkling of her eyes.

Soon he finds himself wondering what she's doing now, if she has a new source of inspiration for her novel and if she has met someone. He winces at that last train of thought, souring his already grey mood.

Putting his pen down, he abandons his work and gives in to his crumbling resolve. He promised himself five days ago that he would not give into to his longing, that he would not open the cabinet just to caress the only physical reminder he has of her. He has lost count of how many times he had made the same promise, only to break it again and again.

Rising, he walks stiffly toward a wooden cabinet that is carefully tucked out of sight. The cold weather like today has never been kind to his ankle. The usual dull pain has turned into an insistent throb that leaves his whole leg stiff if he stands for too long. Opening the cabinet his eyes immediately land on a tattered red shawl, _her_ tattered red shawl.

Being a present from her mother, it is her most prized possession. She surely wants it back but he couldn't find it in him to return it all those months ago. He does not want to lose any reminder that he has left of her in his life, especially now that she no longer writes to him.

Caressing the shawl, he brings it to his nose, hoping to inhale any lingering scent that is distinctly hers. He can only detect the musty smell of the cabinet and this alarms him. He is afraid of forgetting her, afraid of forgetting what she smells like – orange with a hint of vanilla – and, most importantly, of what she looks like. He fears that without the memories of her to sustain him he may forget how to breathe.

How long will it be before she completely disappears from his life? Will the scarf be enough to ground his sanity then? Closing his eyes against the onslaught of images of her he clutches the shawl close to his beating heart.

"_She's happy. She's happy and that is all that matters,_" he repeats this like a mantra in his head. He could try hoarding all the world's treasures but she would still be out of his reach. Worldly things could never hold her interest; neither could cranky old man like him. He wonders why everyone he loves eventually leaves him, making him feel bare, like a vessel without its captain. The current state of his life is wretched at best. He is merely existing; waiting to breathe his last. He lets out an almost unhinged laugh at that last train of thought. He loves her and he needs her.

"Mr. Gold?"

Has he finally lost his sanity? Has he really sunk so low as to be imagining her voice? Maybe this is the start of his fall into the dark abyss. He has often wondered how long it would take for him to lose his grip on the real world; apparently the answer is just a mere ten months.

The sudden feeling of a cold touch on his face forces his eyes open. He sucks in a breath upon seeing _her_ standing in front of him. Is this another sign of his spiral to madness?

"Hey," she says softly. He does not respond, for how can he when all he can think of is how unusually bright her eyes are? They are so full of warmth and – is he imagining it? – adoration. Her eyes are moving slowly, roving all over his face, as if she wants to compare what she sees with what she remembers. This is madness and this is not real. It is a lie and she is merely an image his broken mind has conjured.

"You're not real. You're not coming back," he whispers.

Closing his eyes and wishing the vision away he wonders why he is still able to feel her fingers tracing the contours of his cheeks.

"_Visions! Lies!_" his mind screams at him. Trying to prove himself right, he tries to grab the moving hand caressing his face, certain that he'll end up slapping himself. Thus, it is with great surprise that he feels a slightly wet and cold hand beneath his own.

"Open your eyes. I _am_ here," the voice whispers softly and he can feel her cool breath on his face.

His eyes flutter open and again he finds himself staring into the same set of eyes that have haunted him since she left.

"Belle?" he says hoarsely.

"Yes," she smiles, "I've come back." He wonders briefly if is possible for human eyes to shine any brighter, if it's possible for him to burn from the sheer intensity of her gaze.

"Why?" he manages to splutter. His mind struggles to come up with a list of reasons that might lead her back to him. Then he remembers her shawl. That must be the reason. No one ever comes back to him. Not his father, not his ex-wife, not his son and most certainly not Belle. Belle has seen too many of the wonders the world has to offer, wonders that will surely lure her back into its arms and not his.

"I needed to know if you would be open to the idea of having breakfast with me tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after and every day after that."

In his slightly addled state, and with his mind busily processing the feel of her fingers tracing his lips, it takes a while for her meaning to sink in. His only answer is in the widening of his eyes and the trembling of his lips, for he has lost the ability to speak when she flutters her eyelashes at him and smiles coyly.

"I take your silence as a yes." When he feels her soft lips against his chaffed ones and detects the smell of oranges with a hint of vanilla, it is in that moment that he knows she is real, and begins to live again.


End file.
